


I See Dead People

by CinnamonLily



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Medium!Stiles, Psychic!Stiles, Stiles sees dead people, alternative universe, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 11:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11850969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CinnamonLily/pseuds/CinnamonLily
Summary: Peter was just trying to enjoy his cinnamon latte in peace when a stranger interrupts his moment. The fact that the young man is gorgeous helps. Even if he's probably crazy. Messages from the dead? Yeah, right.





	I See Dead People

**Author's Note:**

> This came from watching the Try Guys's video where they meet the Hollywood Medium. Plot bunnies work in mysterious ways.
> 
> Un-betaed. Sorry about that.

 

Peter sat in his regular booth in his favorite coffee shop. He’d moved to Chicago after work a few months ago, and found this place on his third day there. It was right between his office in midtown and his penthouse, so more often than not, he’d stop there at least once, if not twice, every day.

He sipped his cinnamon latte and flipped the page of the book he was reading on his iPad. It was a rare day off, but somehow he couldn’t seem to stay away from the Bean.

He was thinking about getting a cat, just to have someone to come home to. A black one, probably, because those were the ones that didn’t get adopted so easily. People took them as bad omens or some shit. Peter could relate.

“Uh, excuse me?” A hesitant voice made Peter look up.

The young man couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two, and he was _stunning_. Peter blinked at him for two seconds, before his usual cool and collected lawyer persona slid over him like a mask.

“Yes?”

“I… this is really weird, I know, but could I maybe sit down for a couple of minutes. I have… a message of sorts. For you…?” The guy looked apologetic, already defeated, but also oddly troubled. It was interesting enough for Peter to shrug. He met people who fascinated him very rarely.

One oddball twenty-something seemed… refreshing.

The kid sat down, then reached a hand over to shake Peter’s. “I’m sorry, I’m not usually rude. My name is Stiles,” he said and his hand was warm and grip strong, where Peter had expected nervous sweat, maybe.

“Peter,” he said and gave the kid, Stiles, a small smile. He wasn’t offered a last name, so he wouldn’t volunteer his, either. “So a message for me?” He felt skeptical, but he’d been hit on in weirder ways.

“Okay, so, this is a bit of a stretch, but….” Stiles sighed, ran his fingers through his messy hair and stared out of the window for a few seconds. Then he looked back at Peter and winced. “I’m sort of a medium, I suppose.”

First of all, yeah, right. But secondly, Peter’s snarky self blurted out, “You think you’re a medium?”

“No, I know I, you know, ‘see dead people,’” Stiles said, made air quotes, and rolled his eyes. “It’s just not something I like to advertise. They just sometimes talk to me and I feel fucked up enough as it is. Without them.”

“So you hear voices?”

“Yes, but not in a schizophrenic way. Although my mom died of dementia. I don’t have it. Have the old noggin checked every year just in case,” he rambled, rapping his knuckles on the side of his head. “No, as weird as it sounds, I do talk to dead people sometimes. But then, you might believe me easier than most.”

Peter chuckled. “Why is that?” He felt amused. Intrigued, still. And pretty sure the kid had something wrong in his head. Shame, because he was fucking gorgeous.

“Oh, with the whole, you know.” Stiles made a sort of claw with his fingers let out a little growl of sorts.

Peter’s eyes widened in shock. He jerked back before his instincts made him look around cautiously. The kid was a hunter? Shit. Shit, shit, _shit._

“No, no. I’m not a hunter. Relax. You’re safe. When we were teenagers, my best friend got bitten. We were in the woods one night, just being kids. He got a bit of a crash course into,”—Stiles made the claw again—“stuff, and we had to figure things out for ourselves.”

Okay, well, that made sense. Sort of at least.

“They… didn’t stick around?” The wolf that had bitten Stiles’s friend.

Stiles snorted bitterly. “No. They did do it to a couple of other teenagers that were out that night. A couple at a makeout spot. They had each other. Scotty had me.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. It’s… wrong and very irresponsible.”

“We think they were feral, actually.”

“That’d explain it. Still, shitty thing to do and go through.” Peter frowned and sipped his coffee. Then he remembered why Stiles had stopped by his table in the first place.

Stiles met his expectant expression with another sigh.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of a doubt here. So… shoot.” Peter nodded at him, waiting for him to deliver this message of his.

“So there’s actually two people, sort of. Like there’s this young man, maybe twenties, sort of chestnut hair. He’s just looking at me and I get the feeling he wants to say he’s okay. Like….” Stiles searched for words for a while, his fingers traced invisible patterns to the table between them. “Like he’s not blaming anyone for whatever it was that happened. He thinks….” Stiles looked at him apologetically and winced. “He thinks you should get on with your life without him.”

Peter swallowed hard. _Oliver._ His college boyfriend who had died in the fire with his family. Peter let go of his mug before he crushed it and moved his hands under the table, trying his best not to let his claws out. He closed his eyes and breathed for a while, then looked at Stiles.

“What’s the other message?” he ground the words out from between his teeth.

“She wanted me to tell hers first. But she’s very pushy and seems to think herself very important, so I made her wait. She says take care of her babies. Don’t let them drive you away. Because you’re all pack, still. And to tell someone….” Stiles looked off into the distance without seeing anything, but when Peter glanced down, he’s tracing the tabletop again and this time the shape is a D, no doubt about it. “I don’t know who. Someone who thinks it was their fault, but it’s not you this time. They need to be told she forgives them and doesn’t blame them.”

Peter felt choked up. Whether he believed in this or not, whether this was real or not, hearing from Oliver and who was very obviously Talia made him _feel things_ and he hated that. He sniffed a little and barely held back the tears he could feel forming.

“Thank you. Whether this was real or not. Either case, I’ll let them know.” He knew he’d have to call Derek until his nephew answered. Cora as well. They were pack. There shouldn’t have been such a divide between them.

Stiles seemed to almost slump down with relief.

“Dude, thanks for not slugging me.”

“You get that a lot?” Peter asked, still feeling a bit off-kilter.

“Yeah. That’s why I don’t do this often with strangers. But the woman, she was pretty scary. Alpha, right?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. My sister. You described her to a T, really.” A tear rolled down Peter’s cheek and he wiped it off with an agitated movement.

Stiles started to fidget, then. “Well, I guess I should be going.”

“Stiles, wait,” Peter said, surprising the both. Oliver would’ve wanted him to do this, he thought. “Would you have dinner with me on Thursday?”

Stiles blinked a couple of times, then slowly smiled. “You want to what, _date_ me?” He seemed like he didn’t quite believe Peter, like he was waiting for a catch, but Peter just nodded at him.

“I don’t find people interesting, usually. You’re something different. I would like the opportunity to get to know you better.”

Stiles looked like he needed to think for a moment. “Okay,” he finally said, digging out his wallet from his pocket and produced a card. “I’d like to check out Marissa’s, if you like Italian. But if not, choose a place and let me know.”

Peter took the card. “I’ll make a reservation somewhere and give you a call on Wednesday.”

“Right, well….” Stiles got to his feet and didn’t seem to know how to end whatever they’d been doing there. He gave Peter and awkward wave. “Bye!” He walked to the door, almost tripping a girl carrying a huge handbag on the way.

When Peter looked at the card, it was the design that struck Peter the most. It was clever, original, and obviously made by a professional. Stiles’s logo is a wolf howling at the moon with a fox curled up beneath it. The card says ‘Stiles Stilinski, graphic designer’ with contact information underneath.

Peter smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

On Thursday, they meet at Marissa’s, because Stiles is in the city already and doesn’t need a ride. He’s told Peter he lives in one of the suburbs, and Peter has told him where he lives, too, for reference. They haven’t really had time to talk much, with both having such busy weeks.

Because of that, Peter is pretty sure he didn’t even tell Stiles his last name. He shouldn’t know anything about Peter, really. So, when Stiles starts to fidget through their appetizers, and doesn’t stop when their entrees arrive, Peter doesn’t know how to approach it. They’ve been talking about a lot of things during the meal, but the unease is obvious in Stiles’s body language and his scent, too.

Peter doesn’t know this young man, but he already likes him. He can’t help the attraction, either. He wants Stiles, crazy as that—and/or Stiles—might be.

Eventually, in the middle of digging into his lasagna, Stiles lets out a huff, puts his fork down, and leans back.

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to ruin our date….” He trails off and seems uncomfortable.

“But?” Peter raises a brow at him. He had been thinking, other than Stiles’s odd behavior, that they’re doing just fine. Having a good time, even.

Something distracts Stiles just as he’s opening his mouth, so he sits there, mouth half-open, staring into mid-distance without seeing a thing, it seems. _Oh._

“How does someone have this many dead people watching over them?” Stiles finally asks, clearly blurting it out without meaning to. He slaps a hand over his mouth and looks so apologetic, Peter actually laughs out loud.

“It’s okay,” he says, because nobody can fake this sort of frustration and surprise.

“It’s just… kids and adults and even this old lady who wants to know if you’re wearing a scarf _and_ a hat in the winter because even if you’re wolf, it doesn’t mean you can’t feel the cold and it’s just… man, there’s just a _lot_ of people and I just want to enjoy this date and this food and I kind of like you a lot already and want to get into your pants and I don’t want to seem too crazy, but—”

Peter stops the rambling with a hand over Stiles’s.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay. Nana Hale was a knitter. Tell them all to leave us alone, that I’ll listen on our next date, okay?” he says, and watches as Stiles’s expression morphs from embarrassed and overwhelmed to shy and hopeful.

“Really?”

“Yeah. This is our time. Hell, we can have a whole date just for them, if they so want.”

Stiles closes his eyes for a moment, obviously concentrating on something.

“Okay.” He opens his eyes, picks up his fork again, beams at Peter, and asks, “So, how’s your ravioli?”

 

 


End file.
